Stupid Americans
by TakemylovedowntoVioletHill
Summary: Sherlock takes on a new case, taking down SOPA and PIPA. But, he doesn't want John to come along with him to America. A small drabble based off of a conversation I had with nodoubt-sherlock on tumblr.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock did not check his blog often anymore, John had very truthfully pointed out that no one read it anyways, so it had fallen behind while his flatmate kept up the tedious work of tracking all the cases he took on.

But John was in Dublin on this day, visiting his sister, and so he had gotten so very bored. He had successfully peeled one perfect strip of wallpaper off of the wall and had gone to work on skinning John's chair when the thought of his blog drifted back into his mind. He stuck his knife into the armrest of the poor piece of furniture and sat down at the desk, logging on.

Instantly, notifications of messages left on his blog were there, messages and pleas for them to take their case. He raised an eyebrow, he'd have to comment on this when John got back, obviously _someone _had been reading his blog.

He began scrolling through the messages and was surprised to find that they weren't individual cases, no, they were in fact all hundreds of messages sent by individual people, begging him to take just one case.

He leaned forward, steeping his hands as he read comment after comment, this one from some faceless internet user, judging from her spelling he guessed her American:

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_I am a fan of you blog, I wished you updated it more. I am writing to ask you if it wouldn't be too much trouble to come across the pond and help us with a problem. SOPA and PIPA, we need you to stop it from happening, I understand from Dr. Watson's blog that your brother is an influential government figure, perhaps he could help by speaking out against it._

_If you have the time,  
>Niamh<em>

Letters of the same similarity were popping up everywhere and the consulting detective sat back in his chair, reaching for his blackberry.

John felt his phone vibrating in his pocket and rolled his eyes, answering it. "This better be good Sherlock."

"How did you know it was me? You answered on the first ring, you never do that when answering your phone."

"…you have a special ringtone."

"Highly unlikely but whatever, I need to go to America."

"Wait, what? Sherlock-," the line went dead and John excused himself from his sister's presence.

Harry glared at him and rolled her eyes in a flippant gesture, raising her hand for the bill. "It's alright, I know you won't be back for a while, he has that effect on you."

"He doesn't have any effect on me Harry," her doubtful glance left him with no persuasive argument and so he sighed, redialing his flatmate and pressing the phone to his ear, walking outside.

"Sherlock? SHERLOCK!" he yelled into the phone, hoping to nab the detective's attention.

"For god's sake John you don't have to shout." His baritone snapped through the line.

"What do you mean you have to go to America? What's all this about?" John asked irritably, still sore from the point his sister had made.

"I've accepted a new case and I won't be back for a bit, I'm leaving with Mycroft for Washington DC."

"What the hell? You didn't think it was of importance to include me in this discussion?" John's temper was nearly burnt out.

"I am right now, I'm leaving tomorrow afternoon. You should be back by then right?"

The doctor sputtered out his response, once again amazed at how inconsiderate the man was. "If I jump on the next flight and hurry."

"Well good, hurry then." The line went dead once more.

John looked at the phone, outraged, as he raised his eyes to Harry, who was there with both their coats. "So where's the next adventure taking you?" she asked.

"He's going to America." He replied, weary. "Something about a new case."

Harry nodded. "Why don't you two just admit that you're in love already." She stated, handing him his coat.

"What does that have anything to do with what I just said."

"You're hurt. You're angry and upset that he didn't talk to you first before making the decision. I saw your face. And by the way you describe him; he feels the same way when you go out with your friends or on dates. You're two schoolgirls, really." She said lightly, as though they were discussing the weather.

"Good-bye Harriet." He said, even more irritated, if that was possible. "I have a flight to catch apparently.

It was late when John stumbled home, but Sherlock was up, waiting for him. He walked in, and stopped when he saw that his chair was completely without fabric.

The day had been too stressful for him to properly care, and he just sat down next to his flatmate on the couch.

"You're displeased." The consulting detective murmured.

"Really? I hadn't noticed I've been too busy trying to get back to the flat so I could see you before you left without so much as a care. You're a big tosser, I hope you know that." John stated, on the verge of hysterics.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "I don't want you to go with me, John."

"Yeah, I picked up on that bit, thanks." The doctor snarled.

"No, I mean it could be dangerous… I don't want you to come because I want you safe."

"It's America Sherlock, not Afghanistan, besides, what would it have mattered, I've been to both places and made it out alive."

Sherlock tried a different angle. "It wasn't worth uprooting you over; it will only take a few days at most. You can stay here and I'll video chat you to give information and you can blog about it." The angered expression didn't wipe off his flatmate's face as he'd expected. "Please don't be upset John." He said, now worried that he had made a bigger mistake than originally anticipated.

"Don't be upset? You think I'm a child that you can bargain with? Give me a lollipop and I'll forget that you ever did anything wrong?" John was working himself up, his face flushing. Sherlock looked horrified, he hadn't gauged the reaction to his absence to be this bad. The army doctor stood, taking a deep breath. "And just for fun you decided to violate the only piece of furniture I use regularly in this damned flat?" He made wild gestures towards the chair.

"I was bored."

"Is that really your only defense?" John threw his hands in the air. "You know what Sherlock? I think its best that you go on to America for a few days. Just so I can do some bloody damage control."

The detective looked wounded by this remark, but his defense mechanisms kicked in as he stood, towering over the doctor. "Fine, I'll leave you to it." He wheeled towards the door, going for a dramatic exit. He stopped just short of the entryway and turned back round to face John. "And for the record, that fabric was _hideous_." All dignity gone from the retreat, he stomped upstairs to his room.

John woke up to hearing the sounds of suitcases being drug down the stairs and Mrs. Hudson's voice talking incessantly. He sighed, sitting up in bed and looking at the time. It was ten fifty-six, Sherlock's flight was at eleven thirty.

He made his way to the sitting room and nearly stubbed his toe on the barrage of suitcases lining the hallway. "Jesus," he said, steering clear as he stuck his head into the living room and saw Sherlock trying to stuff what looked suspiciously like a forearm in a freezer bag into his carry-on.

"Good morning John." His flatmate said, his brow furrowed as he pushed the severed body part into the luggage and quickly zipped it up.

"They're not going to let you take that on the plane Sherlock." John said, leaning on the doorframe.

"I'm taking a private plane, courtesy of Mycroft. I also, erm, didn't want to leave my experiments here, as they need constant attention." Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

"I thought you were only going for a few days."

"_Constant attention,_ John."

"Right, sorry." The doctor replied sarcastically. "Well, I guess I'll be seeing you in a few." He tried to sound nonchalant but he found himself choking on his uncaring tone. This would be the longest the two had been separated in their time knowing each other.

Sherlock smoothed his suit and stuck out a hand for John to shake, but his flatmate just stared at it forlornly, so he dropped it. "It's only a couple of days, a week at most. Nothing to fear, Lestrade knows where I am, you can direct all the calls meant for me to my mobile. Except if Anderson calls, do not give Anderson my number…. Or Donovan. Don't give anyone but Lestrade my number-,"

"You're rambling Sherlock."

"Hardly, I'm giving you instructions because I don't want you running amuck while I'm gone and being reckless, like handing my phone number out to Anderson."

John cocked his head, amused at how stiff his flatmate was. "Contrary to popular belief Sherlock, not everyone wants to talk to you all the time and I'm sure, even if I did get the fleeting fancy to hand your number to Anderson, he would probably burn it."

Sherlock clenched his jaw, but didn't reply, busying himself with going into the kitchen and collecting random body parts to put in his duffel bag. John watched him for a few minutes until the detective broke the silence roughly. "And, don't… don't bring any of your dates here."

It was an odd request but at this moment he couldn't really deny the tall man anything. "Sure, no problem." He replied simply.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something more but shut it quickly as the buzzer downstairs rung. Mrs. Hudson's feet could be heard as she opened it. Muffled words were exchanged and then her voice, yelling up the flight of steps. "Sherlock! Your brother's here for you!"

A lump formed in John's throat as he watched Sherlock freeze, as though he was entirely unprepared for this moment. He looked down at his flatmate and stuck his hand once more, only to have John forgo the formalities and embrace him right then and there.

The detective went so rigid that the doctor was afraid he had done the wrong thing, but a set of long, spindly arms wrapped around his waist in a firm hug that made John smile into the lapels of his flatmate's suit. "Only a few days Doctor Watson, honestly, this sentiment thing has really gotten to you over the past week or so." Sherlock said waspishly into his hair, sending little goosebumps erupting onto John's neck.

The sharp comments were his way of saying _I'll miss you_. It wasn't his way to be all touchy feely and John knew it, and he took each jabbing remark as a personal endearment as Sherlock extracted himself from the hug (rather red in the face now) and began darting about the flat, gathering up his items.

"I'll call you tonight, maybe set up a video chat if they've got proper wi-fi." The consulting detective murmured, not quite looking at John. "Don't touch anything, and for god's sakes, please remember to buy milk."

And with that he was down the stairs in a flurry, grabbing the stray suitcases in the hallway and shutting the downstairs door in one seemingly fluid motion. John breathed into the empty flat and felt that lump return.

His phone vibrated on the desk and he turned his head towards it and answered it, confused. "Sherlock?"

"… You put me on vibrate, that's how you know it's me when I call." Came the almost smug voice from the other end of the line.

"So?" John asked, cheeks turning red for no particular reason.

"So what? You have a ringtone for every other person who calls and you put _me_ on vibrate? How does that happen?" Sherlock seemed to be going about this all wrong, like being put on that particular setting was an insult.

"Come home and I'll explain it to you." John replied into the phone before hanging up and sitting down in his now naked chair.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock sat in 221B, idly looking over the newspaper. It was rather boring, save for the enormous headline **Net Detective and Mysterious Stranger Overthrow SOPA and PIPA Legislation**. John was making tea in the kitchen, blissfully aware of Sherlock's presence.

It had taken longer than expected, three weeks to resolve the issue in America. Payment hadn't been from one person, in fact, it seemed more and more envelopes arrived in the post every day. Curiously, the only return addresses given were websites ending in dot tumblr dot com and every postage stamp had the words #beliveinsherlock on them in yellow lettering. The packages held everything from several quid to hundreds of pounds. John had been going to the currency exchange kiosk often as well, as American dollars also kept making appearances.

Sherlock hadn't the slightest interest in his pricey fan mail and had gone about business as normal. The only sign he acknowledged the change in their bank accounts was that a day after he arrived back from America, a chair arrived for John. It was covered in the same hideous fabric that Sherlock had skinned off of the bare piece of furniture that had since been thrown out.

"It was the only one they had left out of the original set of three." The detective had said curtly the following morning, sipping his tea.

Even though Sherlock wouldn't admit it, John knew that he had missed him just as much as he had missed him, the first night he had come back, the doctor had been so overjoyed that he had promptly tackled the man when he came through the door.

"JOHN WATSON!" the man had boomed, his suitcases scattered every which way. "Do you have any idea how many different bits of anatomy are in these bags?" the context of the statement had made John start to laugh, great shoulder heaving laughs and Sherlock's expression went from fury, to bewilderment, and finally to bemusement as he picked himself up off the floor and retrieved his odds and ends that had gone flying. "I'm so thrilled that you've lost your mind while I was away." He snapped as John took a seat on the couch, still laughing.

"I'm…sorry." The man gasped for air.

That night both had been uneasy about heading off to their respective rooms for the night and so John had brought quilts from Mrs. Hudson's linen cabinet and they had bundled up on the sofa and watched crap telly until they dozed off.

Their landlady found them in the morning, John's head resting on Sherlock's shoulder. The dark haired man was awake, but hadn't moved, for fear of waking his flatmate. Mrs. Hudson had come up the stairs and Sherlock looked surprised to see her but he only stared at her until she felt that she was intruding on a private moment between the boys and had left, simply shutting the door behind her.

Since then, the boys had been even more inseparable then usual and they had developed a deep disliking to sleeping in beds, rather the sofa became a sort of resting place for them. The sleeping positions varied, but somehow or another, Sherlock always made sure he woke up first so that he could look at John sleeping before the other man woke up.

Their lives essentially remained the same however and both preferred it this way.

Sherlock hadn't checked his blog in a while and the thought crossed his mind as he was contemplating spray painting a dart board above the sofa and throwing knives at it. John was typing furiously at his computer, not bothering to look up at the detective and thus was quite surprised when the first hunting utensil found its way into the dry wall.

"Stoppit!" John hollered, still not tearing his eyes away from the screen. Sherlock sulked, pulling the knife free and looking over his flatmate's shoulder, throwing the weapon onto his chair so he could rest his palms on the man's shoulders.

"What are you doing?"

"Updating the blog."

"I thought you did that while I was away."

"You hardly told me anything over the phone; we were too busy talking about other stuff or not talking at all." John replied, not oblivious to the fact that Sherlock's thumbs were rubbing small circles into the base of his neck. What he said had been true however, when he had got on the phone with Sherlock, it was far from business related. Sometimes they talked about nothing, other times they were just content to hear each other on the other end, breathing.

Often, Sherlock would just set up a video chat and the pair would put their laptops in a corner so it would be like they were in the same room, then they would go about their business.

The detective leaned closer, his breath tickling John's ear as he read the words that were frantically being typed onto the screen. "'SOPA Opera'? Is that the title you chose for it? I would've just titled it Stupid Americans." Sniffed Sherlock, removing his hands from John's shoulders and going back to lobbing the knife at the wall.

"I can't write that Sherlock," the doctor said, exasperated by his flatmate's lack of emotional awareness.

"I see no problem with that." He retorted, throwing his hunting utensil again and letting loose a satisfying grunt of approval as it stuck firmly where the eye of the smiley face was. "You never told me why I was on vibrate?"

"I beg your pardon?" John said, his train of thought disrupted by his words. He stopped typing and looked up at the dark-haired man.

"When I call you, it's on vibrate. Why?" Sherlock repeated, slower as if he was a retard.

"Oh, that… it's nothing."

"Jaaaaaaaaawwwwn." The detective whined, plopping down on the couch.

"It's nothing!"

"Tell me."

There was a very loud pause in the room as John sighed and began typing again, Sherlock raised his head from his spot on the sofa and awaited a reply. "So I can… feel you. Y'know, when you call."

"Feel me?"

"I dunno… It's comforting."

The smug expression worn by the consulting detective stayed firmly in place for the next week.


End file.
